


a strange position

by eduwacee



Series: Temporal Shenanigans Verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angel issues, Drama, Family Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Sequel, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-20 18:18:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eduwacee/pseuds/eduwacee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sam gets on everyone's bad side, Gabriel is typically evasive, and Dean wants to shack up with Castiel. Hijinks ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> This is intended to be a companion piece to “whose waves are years,” so it’s probably best to have read that first or this might not make sense. Basically, the Sam and Gabriel in my head wouldn't shut up, so this happened. Rating might go up next chapter. 
> 
> Also, I’ve never actually been to ANY of the places mentioned in either part of this series, so please forgive any inaccuracies. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural.

+++

“Handle bars, and then I let go, let go for anyone.  
Take me in, and throw out my heart and get a new one.  
Next thing, we're touching--  
You look at me, it's like you hit me with lightning.”  
\-- Ellie Goulding

“The death of God left the angels in a strange position.”   
― Donald Barthelme

\+ + +

Part One

+++

One day in early Autumn, Gabriel shows up in Sam and Jesse's motel room with a goofy smile and a fifth of Jager.

It's late in the afternoon, shadows stretching long across the carpet. Every motel Sam has ever stayed at seems to have some kind of theme, and this one's is aquatic life, which means that there is a giant plaster octopus on the wall, a seashell divider, and the worn comforters are covered with smiling pink crabs. It's pretty horrendous, but Sam has been too busy researching ichthyocentaurs to give it much attention. He's found out over the past couple of months that Jesse has about as much good taste as a Chinese buffet; when they arrived yesterday evening, the kid stared at the abomination on the wall like it was some kind of miracle.

"Did you know, according to Wikipedia," he said (most of Jesse's sentences started like this), "all octopi are venomous?"

"Nope," said Sam, who was more impressed by the correct plural usage than anything else.

Jesse is currently flipping through the meager offering of channels on the ancient television while Sam tries not to pull his hair out over the blatant misinformation he keeps coming across online. It's almost as bad as a profile on a dating website. The room actually has a real desk, which is nice, because a part of Sam feels that research is more legit if it's done at an actual desk. But the chair that goes with it is too small, and his legs are starting to ache.

It's at that moment that Gabriel sweeps in through the front door--unnecessarily, because he rarely bothers with human conventions like physics and manners. He's obviously in a dramatic mood.

"What're you kids up to?" The archangel doesn't wait for an answer, just sprawls out on one of the beds like he owns it. Which, Sam thinks, is pretty much how he treats everything anyway.

Sam and Jesse watch with some trepidation as Gabriel produces an empty glass and a can of Red Bull, because if there's anything Gabriel doesn't need, it's sugar and caffeine. But Gabriel blithely makes himself a series of Jager bombs, and Sam finally gathers the presence of mind to say, "Isn't it a little early in the day for that?"

(He conveniently forgets that he and Dean have a bad habit of breaking out the alcohol at the slightest provocation, regardless of whether it's closer to dinner or breakfast. It just seems like the appropriate thing to say.)

Gabriel wags his finger at him. "First of all: pot. Kettle. And secondly—oh, hey, where's your brother? And mine?"

"They're not going on a date," Jesse says helpfully.

Sam grins because Dean and Cas are _totally_ on a date (though Dean absolutely spazzed when Sam pointed out that taking a guy out to the movies counts as one).

"Iron Man 2," Sam tells Gabriel.

"Aw, I wanted to see that."

"Me, too," says Jesse with a somewhat mournful sigh.

"You wouldn't want to go with Dean and Cas anyway," Sam assures him, exiting out of most of the tabs in his browser. Useless, useless, vaguely pornographic. "Dean'll have to talk through most of it because you know Cas won't get what's going on."

"Oh, I doubt there'll be much talking," Gabriel says, waggling his eyebrows.

Sam goes kind of red in the face, but Jesse just says, "I hope they'll bring back some popcorn."

Dean _never_ pays for popcorn at the movie theater; if he eats it at all, it's because he's smuggled in his own bags. But Sam knows that, against all odds, Dean will find himself toting that expensive movie popcorn for Jesse whenever he and Cas turn up. Behold, the powers of the antichrist.

With a pointed snap of his fingers, Gabriel manifests a shot glass on the desk next to Sam, and Sam kind of gives it a dirty look before giving up and knocking it back. Some battles are not worth fighting. The liquor burns all the way down but he resists the urge to cough because Gabriel would love the opportunity—any opportunity--to mock him.

"I still haven't seen Inception," Sam remarks absently.

Actually, he hasn't been to the movies in quite some time, what with switching places with his alternate self and avoiding Heaven and Hell and just about everything in between. He thinks Gabriel should offer to take him. They're not exactly dating, per se...at least, Sam doesn't think randomly spiriting him away to foreign countries for food and, more often, alcohol, counts as dating. He has the distinct impression that Gabriel would go with or without him, but that the archangel enjoys the company--and the sputtering rage that takes over Dean every time Sam drunk texts him from Cairo or St. Petersburg or (on one memorable occasion) Vilnius.

Oh God, Vilnius. Sam hastily pushes the memory away, because he had not enjoyed Vilnius.

"Except you totally did," Gabriel protests. "Bungee jumping was on your bucket list."

"The platform was built over the site of a massacre," Sam replies irritably.

"Really?" Jesse tilts his head, and between one blink and the next, he's gone. A few seconds later, he pops back into existence, eyes wide. "It is," he says, awed.

"Don't do that," Sam scolds, though he knows it won't do much good.

"Think you can handle yourself for a while without your babysitter?"

At that, Jesse and Sam look up with identical expressions of surprise, though Sam's quickly degenerates into an eye roll.

"I've been alone before," Jesse says placidly.

Sam winces from a sudden stab of guilt. Of course Jesse is used to being alone; he was by himself all that time after leaving his home behind and going into hiding from the demons who were out to make him their front-man. Sometimes Sam wonders if they should talk about it--the fact that Jesse hasn't seen his parents in over a year, the fact that he might never be able to see them again without putting himself back on Hell's radar. It can't be healthy to keep something like that in. But idolizing Dean probably means that Jesse won't be participating in a feelings jam any time soon.

Gabriel's grin is vaguely dangerous. "I knew you were an awesome kid, even if we're technically enemies."

"No, you're not," Sam says, frowning. "Not even technically. Jesse's on Team Free Will now. I think I'm more technically your enemy than he is."

"Aw, c'mon, the demon blood can't be that strong anymore. You don't even use your freaky mind powers. Go on, try to psychic me. What am I thinking right now?" It's obvious from Gabriel's tone that he's intentionally imagining something lascivious, so it's probably a good thing that Sam hasn't been able to "psychic" anyone for a while now.

"So anyway," and Sam is not at all ashamed of the unsubtle change of subject. Subtlety never works with angels. "Do you know anything about ichthyocentaurs?"

"Oooh no." There is a thunk as Gabriel sets his glass on the desk, suddenly right next to Sam and looking down at him with a stern set to his jaw. "We are not on the clock, Sam. Our brothers are out enjoying themselves, so we're going on strike. Thus saith...me."

There's no warning--one minute, Sam is reaching over to shut down his laptop, and the next, he's grabbing at Gabriel's elbow to avoid falling to the concrete that's suddenly underfoot, surrounded by what feels like a million people. It's night, and they're in the middle of an enormous crowd; the noise of talking and laughing and traffic is jarring. Sam barely has time to fix an annoyed scowl on Gabriel, who is wearing this smug little smile, when he notices the source of all the warm light that bathes whatever city they're in--hundreds of lanterns like earthbound stars, floating up into the black sky.

It takes him a moment to catch his breath, and an even longer moment to realize that he has yet to release his death grip on Gabriel's arm. He can't help but notice that, despite Gabriel's slim frame, the skin under his fingertips is fever-hot and stretched tight over what might as well be steel instead of muscle. Sam hastily pulls away, trying to be casual and utterly failing.

"Where are we?"

Gabriel is fiddling with what turns out to be yet another lantern, this one unlit. He has to raise his voice to be heard over the crowd as he says, "Taipei! Oh, here--"

Sam looks down to find that his light jacket has been replaced with a thick coat, and it finally clicks that the tiny shivers racking his body are from the cold. He blows on his numb hands.

"Had to bring us back to February for this," Gabriel says, and he looks so young in the glow of the tiny flames above, his eyes lit up gold. "Sky Lantern Festival. You're supposed to write a wish on one of these, but," and he leans close enough that Sam can feel his breath against his ear, "I already know what you want."

And that makes Sam shiver in a way that he can't honestly blame on the cold. He knows that he's being teased. Usually he can give as good as he gets.

Usually, he would flirt back, maybe fall back on the puppy-dog eyes that he knows are a particular weakness of...well, anyone ever.

After all, Dean Winchester is his brother and Sam learned from the very best.

Usually, Sam would not have to focus on actually breathing, on thinking past the rush of blood to his head.

He thinks that Dean would probably be justified in calling him a total girl right now.

The fact is, he has a huge and probably unreciprocated crush on a creature who could conceivably tear him limb from limb without breaking a sweat, who makes the phrase “May-December romance” sound like a fucking joke because Gabriel is at least as old as the earth beneath them, if not older. Even if he is currently acting like a hyped up ten year old with a very definite naughty streak, the thought of propositioning Gabriel—real-life, honest-to-God archangel _Gabriel_ —kind of makes Sam's insides go cold with nerves. It's...it's ridiculous, and impossible, and he's getting closer to doing it every time that little mischievous dimple pops up next to Gabriel's mouth.

It's there now, and Gabriel has pulled away to wave his hand over the blank white surface of the lantern. Black letters seep up, and Sam leans over to get a good look.

“'Sam Winchester's greatest wish,'” Sam reads aloud, disbelieving. “'Tickets to see Inception even though it came out in May?'”

“Plural,” Gabriel says, holding up two fingers. “Because I know you wouldn't dream--heh--of going without me.”

After the lantern is lit, Gabriel releases it to join its brothers and they watch it rise in strange silence, Sam with his hands jammed in his pockets and Gabriel with that same small smile that looks like a secret.

\+ + +

It's much later, when they're sitting in an empty penthouse at the top of Taipei 101 (which is, Gabriel told him, the former tallest building in the world), the glitter of the city stretching out in all directions, a platter of some kind of meat roll in Sam's lap and a sugary rice pudding in Gabriel's—it's about then that Sam finally realizes something is bothering Gabriel.

He takes a sip of the (awful) beer Gabriel mojoed up, his eyes flicking carefully over to take in the slightly slumped posture of his friend. Here in this bare, quiet room, lit all in neon from the outside, it's easy to see the tired lines under Gabriel's eyes, the carelessness of his attire—well, Gabriel always dresses kind of casually, but his Miami Marlins t-shirt is wrinkled and stained, and his socks don't even match. Considering that Gabriel can clothe himself as easily, apparently, as thinking about it, that's a glaring sign that something is rotten in the state of Denmark.

“Come on, man,” Sam finally says, his long legs stretched out before him. This is, he swears, the most comfortable and certainly the most expensive couch he has ever sat (or lounged) on. “What's up?”

“Are you going to psychoanalyze me, Sam?” Gabriel's voice is tinged with amusement. “Do you want me to talk about my feelings?”

“In a manful way,” Sam says seriously.

“I'm not drunk enough for that,” Gabriel says with equal sincerity, though he's been drinking for hours now. His words are barely slurred, though, so he must not be capable of going at it with his usual attention. Sam has learned that, for the most part, Gabriel is only ever intentionally intoxicated. “I might torch this place when we leave,” he adds. “D'you know the kind of douchebag you have to be to live in a place like this? Think I'd be doing someone a favor.”

“No arson, please.” Sam falls back, his eyes lazily hooded. “You can talk about it, you know. Really. If you want. Or, uh, not. If you don't.” He clears his throat awkwardly. “So, yeah.”

“Shut up and try this,” Gabriel says, and the way that Sam can hear the affection behind the words makes him feel shaky and warm.

It's some kind of candy, Sam is pretty sure, long and thin and atrociously pink. Gabriel is extending it towards him like the world's tiniest sword, and without thinking too much about it, Sam sits up straight enough to just lean forward and bite down. He's disgusted by the overpowering sweetness, enough that he's gagging over it before he realizes belatedly that Gabriel probably meant for him to take the candy, not eat out of his hands like a fucking fourteen year old girl on her first date.

“Ugh,” he says, disdainful and mature because goddamnit, he's a grown ass man. “'S awful.”

“Really?” And Gabriel only has half of the stick left, so he finishes it off curiously and of course he was using Sam as a taste tester, like those medieval boys who had to make sure the king's food wasn't poisoned. When he finishes chewing, he very, very rudely licks his fingers because obviously God must not have been big on table manners when Gabriel was growing up. (Well, they're not at a table but. Details.) “What the hell, this is awesome.”

“Oh.” Sam isn't even drunk and he can feel the stupid building up in him with the same inevitability of a tidal pull. “Maybe I should taste it again.”

\+ + +

“Sammy,” Dean says, and the shock on his face would be priceless if Sam wasn't so absolutely miserable. Yup, there's that classic Dean panic, complete with furrowed brows, raised voice, clenching fists just looking for something to strangle.

His brother is standing in a halo of morning sunshine, the door of the motel room still flung open and that ugly plaster octopus grinning its same manic grin.

Sam throws one arm over his eyes, biting back a pained groan. He feels like shit. He hadn't even managed to change out of his clothes the night before, and now his belt is digging into his stomach and he smells like liquor and, Jesus, what is that sticky stuff on his shirt, does he even want to know?

“It's not blood,” Jesse says, sitting up in his own bed and not bothering to cover a yawn. His hair is oddly tame for (Sam risks a glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand) 8:30 in the morning. “The red stuff. I checked already. ‘S paint.”

“We’ve got to have a talk about these little trips you take with…with him,” Dean says, and the relief in his voice would be touching if Sam didn’t feel like he’s been run over by an Amtrak. “I mean, literally painting the town red—“

“Man, you just couldn’t resist, could you.”

“No,” Dean admits. Something heavy hits Sam’s chest. He moves his arm enough to see that Dean has brought him breakfast—probably something artery-clogging, but he can’t bring himself to care.

Jesse is already tearing into his own biscuit; when he speaks, crumbs spatter everywhere. “Where’s Castiel?”

“Shower,” Dean says shortly, and then, with a determined casualness, “We’re gonna swing through Des Moines today, is what we were thinking.”

Sam’s mind, which was preoccupied with thoughts of a certain mercurial archangel, goes blank with shock. _Holy crap_ , he thinks, stunned. _He’s really doing it._

When Sam first found the paperwork shoved in the back of the Impala’s glove box, he’d thought it was some kind of mistake. He’d quickly grabbed his cell phone and slammed the box shut, trying to ignore the strange feeling that was making him numb all over, grateful that none of the others were around to witness his agitation. And then he’d put it out of his mind completely until two weeks ago. He and Dean were sharing a sink together in one of their typical dives, and as Dean scrubbed at the dried blood dying his hands brown, he cast a look around them at the tiny, well-worn motel bathroom and said, “So, Iowa’s nice in the fall.”

Sam grunted noncommittally. There was a blood stain on his tie, and he hoped Dean would hurry up so that he could soak it in hot water before it set.

“Pretty and, uh…I mean, you’d like it. Lots of Amish folks.”

“Mm.”

“Good place to live, I think. What do you think, Sammy?”

Sam remembered the loan applications in the car, and in the flaking surface of the mirror in front of them, his mouth dropped open.

“So what,” he said after a tense minute, “are we talking about here? Is this you buying a house, Dean? Is that what this is?”

“Us,” Dean said, kind of surly and embarrassed. “All of us. And yeah.”

“Wow, that’s…” Sam blinked at his brother. “Completely out of character.” He was tempted to go for the holy water.

Dean must have seen the calculation in his expression, because he punched Sam in the arm and said, “No. Don’t go there. Look—“ He turned off the water and shook his hands out over the basin, splashing Sam and ignoring the scowl it earned him. “I know we’ve never really done the white picket fence thing, not long-term, okay. And it is kind of weird, I get that, I’m just saying…I’m saying there’s a house outside of Des Moines and I just want you to look at it, Sam. Hell, you’re the one who’s all about settling down, putting in roots. The apple pie life. Shit.”

There was a familiar exhaustion pulling at the corners of Dean’s eyes. Sam looked away, his guilt eating at him like acid.

The thing is, he isn’t sure what he thinks about it—any of it: Iowa, settling down, hunting as an extracurricular activity instead of a lifestyle. That wasn’t the first time they’d spoken of it, but it was the first time that they’d spoken of it like it was going to happen, a plan instead of a pipe dream. And now he’s nodding along as Dean talks about the routes they should take, how they need to stop for gas before crossing the state line, but inside he’s freaking the hell out. It makes sense in so many ways to have some permanent base of operations—a place that they can call their own. Bobby’s house has been the closest thing they’ve had, but hell, they’re grown men. They can’t keep dropping in on him whenever they need some R&R for the rest of their lives, right? It’s too close to the “living in your parents’ basement” stereotype. Neither of the Winchester brothers has ever held a steady, legitimate job. Sam thinks they probably fit the textbook definition of “boomerang kids”, which is just humiliating.

Plus, there’s the fact that they’re responsible for Jesse now—as responsible as anyone can be, really, and Sam knows from experience that living out of motel rooms and the car doesn’t a fantastic childhood make.

And it’s not like Sam hasn’t lived in very close quarters with Dean for…for a long time. Almost his entire life.

Logically, he should be over the moon about Dean’s sudden inclination towards domesticity.

Instead, he goes through the motions of getting ready, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach.

+++

It’s nice.

The house outside of Des Moines is the kind of place Sam never would have imagined his brother living in. The realtor tells them it dates back to the '30s, gives them a brief history of the previous owners that Sam is too distracted to listen to. Cas is fascinated by the rusting spiral staircase that leads up to the attic and the little trapezoidal doors that hide the crawlspace. Sam wonders how much influence Cas’s presence has had over Dean’s decision to buy a house in the first place. He’s smart enough not to pry into the epic failmance that is _CasandDean_ , but he watches his brother’s face as they tour the building, watches Dean watching Cas, and thinks that it’s the first time he’s seen Dean genuinely enthusiastic about anything in a very long time. It’s kind of cute. If he can ever stop secretly flipping his shit, he’ll have to find really subtle ways of taunting Dean about it.

Dean starts talking finances, and Cas and Jesse are collectively fanboying over an ancient board game they’d found in the crawlspace. As Jesse sneaks Dean’s phone from his back pocket to consult the Wikipedia gods, Sam nudges his brother and mutters, “Gonna go get lunch while you’re finishing up.”

Dean distractedly tosses him the keys. When Sam slides into the Impala’s front seat, a weight seems to lift from his chest and he takes a deep, relieved breath.

There are a bunch of shops and restaurants on the main drag of the town, and in the distance he can see the stuttering skyline of Des Moines itself. He’s tempted by this one deli that reminds him of one he’d loved at Stanford, what feels like a few lifetimes ago, but Dean would never forgive him so he picks the diner that looks the greasiest. The menu doesn’t have anything on it that isn’t brown and deep-fried except for, bizarrely, mac and cheese, so that’s what Sam orders for himself before making a take-out order for the others. He gets a cup of coffee, too, and sips at it morosely as he waits for his food in a corner booth with torn seats and cigarette burns on the table.

He looks up when a red dress slides into the seat across from him and burns his tongue on the coffee when he realizes exactly who is wearing said dress.

 _Fuck my life._ If there is some kind of specific protocol for dealing with pagan gods aside from killing them, Sam isn’t aware of it. He’s reaching for the gun concealed under the hem of his sweater but Kali just raises an eyebrow at him and he takes that to mean that she’s most likely not going to kill him right now. Not in a diner this bad.

She hands him a napkin and he dabs at the coffee he spilled on the formica tabletop. Her dark, kohl-rimmed eyes never leave his face, and her lips stretch into what might be a smile. Sort of. With a bit of imagination.

“You _are_ different, Sam Winchester,” she remarks, cool as you please. “Not as different as I thought you might be. It is so interesting, the sequence of events that have brought you to this moment.”

“I guess.” Sam only notices that his leg is bouncing nervously when she reaches over and rests one long-fingered hand over his knee. _Oh man_ , he thinks, _the Goddess of Death is feeling me up._

“I am not,” she says, because of course she can read him like a book. Fucking pagan gods. “I’m not given to delicacy, so if that was the case, believe me—“ And she licks her lips. “You would know.”

Sam just gives up. He long ago accepted that his life is a freak show; he should ask Kali if it’s bad karma or something, seeing as she’s probably an expert in that kind of thing, but he somehow doesn’t think she would appreciate the question. So he says, “Any particular reason for this visit?”

“Well, this is a little…uncomfortable,” she says after a long pause, tossing her hair over her shoulder in a way that releases a sweet cloud of perfume over them. “I’ll be frank and you, in return, will be honest. What is going on between you and Loki?”

Sam’s mind goes blank. Then he realizes she means Gabriel, and then he remembers that Kali is kind of Gabriel’s ex-girlfriend. “Shit. Uh…” He flounders. “Why do you ask?”

“I ask because he sat outside Kalighat temple—my temple, Winchester—all last night drinking himself stupid and making an utter fool of himself,” she says. “More so than usual.”

“That—“

“Your name was mentioned.”

“I…well…”

“He replaced the waters of the sacred pool with lime Jell-O, Winchester, and it is all your fault.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Sam says despairingly. “I honestly didn’t think he’d get so _weird_ about it, you know? It’s just that he’s always flirting with me, and I was a little drunk, and he’s an asshole but he did save my life so—“ He catches himself making wild gestures that are attracting way too much attention from the other customers and hastily tucks his hands in his lap, chagrined. And since the universe hates Sam, it chooses that particular time for the waitress to slide Sam’s mac and cheese on front of him. As she leans over to refill his coffee, she winks at him, and Sam is glad she misses the measured look Kali aims at her.

“Don’t mind me,” Kali murmurs, pushing a wrapped set of silverware towards him helpfully.

His appetite is gone, but he forces himself to take a few bites, wincing at the amount of salt assaulting his mouth.

“It happened last night, then. This thing you regret.” Kali sighs while Sam just keeps eating, glad for the excuse not to talk about it. “You do know that Loki does not take consorts, don’t you?”

Sam chokes and has to drink the rest of his lukewarm coffee to clear his throat. “What?” he squeaks.

“Considering that he is, in reality, an angel—“ She says it like it’s a dirty word. “I think that makes your chances of ingratiating yourself to him even fainter. Were it not for that, I would congratulate you on your cunning. Winning the favor of an immortal is very impressive. I suppose it would be invaluable to someone in your line of work.”

“Wha—no, no, that’s not—I don’t want any favors from him,” Sam says hotly. “I can clean up my own messes, okay, I just—I wanted to touch him, and he wasn’t into it and—he literally dumped me like three miles from where we were staying and I got attacked by some weirdo with a can of paint and lost my watch and I’m kind of mad about it still so is that all that you wanted to know? I’ve gotta get back to my brother.”

Kali just stares at him. He tries not to remember the blank look on Gabriel’s face when Sam had rested his open palm against it, the sharp line of the archangel’s jaw sending a quiet rush through him.

“If you are so adept at cleaning up your messes,” she finally says, “then clean up this one. Immediately.”

Her words carry the weight of authority and Sam instinctively wants to resist—he wants to make her understand that it’s not his fault, he didn’t do anything wrong. Maybe stupid, but not wrong. But she’s already sweeping out of the diner, her hips swaying in a way that calls the attention of every male within seeing distance. A burly guy by the entrance actually starts to get up and follow her before his bottle-blond girlfriend smacks his hand furiously.

After Sam pays for his to-go order, he sits in the car for too long fiddling with his cell phone, scrolling through his list of contacts and passing over Gabriel’s name again and again. Gabriel had actually put his own number in Sam’s phone, after changing the names of all of Sam’s other contacts to Harry Potter characters. Now that he’s looking, Sam realizes that he still has Castiel listed as “Hermione,” only because he so rarely calls him; the hilarity of Cas trying to use a phone makes it almost impossible to carry on an actual conversation with him.

Well, maybe he won’t call Gabriel right now. The food is getting cold and he’s already stressed out about the house situation.

Dean grumbles at him when Sam finally makes it back, but he makes happy noises over the food so Sam figures he’s as good as forgiven. They eat standing up, and Sam takes the opportunity to circle around the property. It’s several acres, mostly trees, but Sam sticks close to the actual house, his boots crunching over the fallen leaves that hide the thin brown grass.

Dean is showing Cas how to blow the wrapper off a straw when Sam shuffles back over to the car. “Ready?” He calls out.

Sam makes a sound that he hopes is vaguely positive.

They check in to a motel for the night, and after he puts Jesse to bed, Sam invites himself over to the room his brother and Cas are sharing, snagging one of the beers Dean has stocked the mini-fridge with. Houston is playing the Colts and Sam gets into an argument with Dean over one really shitty play that Cas listens to with shuttered amusement. Cas doesn’t really get recreational sports, but he doesn’t seem to mind the rare occasions when Sam and Dean actually have time to watch them. Right now he has a book open in his lap and when Sam reaches over to pluck it away, he can’t help but laugh.

“The Princess Bride? I love this book.”

“Oh my god, don’t encourage him,” Dean says disgustedly.

“It is very good,” Cas admits.

“Oh come on, Dean, it’s a classic,” Sam says when Dean’s expression remains stormy.

“Yeah. For girls,” says Dean, but Sam knows for a fact that it’s one of Dean’s favorite books, too. “Hey, so what did you think about the house?”

“It…it’s great,” Sam says, hoping that Dean didn’t notice him flinch at the question but knowing that he did.

Dean’s brow furrows. “What’s the matter.” It’s less of a question than a demand.

In the end, they fight like they always do. Cas wisely retreats to the room next door where Jesse is probably already fast asleep, or at least pretending to be, so it’s just Sam and Dean screaming at each other, neither of them willing to back down. And when Sam thinks back on it later, he won’t be able to blame Dean for his livid confusion—it doesn’t even make sense to Sam, the reluctance he feels. By the time the argument has veered completely off course into the darker territory of past wrongs, Sam is just done. He stalks out of the room and across the neon-lit parking lot, hot wires the first convenient car he sees with the vague intention of driving until the gas runs out.

+++

He’s on the outskirts of Sioux Falls when the car putters to a stop on a deserted back road. His eyes are gritty with fatigue but he’s still angry, enough so that he doesn’t even struggle when he pushes the car off the road before shifting it from neutral to park. It sits there in the darkness like a gigantic beetle, the only real sign of civilization Sam can see aside from the power lines overhead.

It’s probably not the best idea he’s ever had, walking alone along some strange road in the middle of the night—unarmed, of course, because he’s kind of an idiot.

 _Christ, where am I even going?_ Well, it doesn’t matter. He needs to find a place to crash for a while, cool his head, and then maybe he won’t feel like such an asshat and he’ll answer one of the incoming calls that have been blowing up his cell phone and—

Speaking of his cell. Sam’s feet pause mid-step on the asphalt as he has a sudden mental image of Kali, staring him down with a cool, baleful expression.

Words cannot even describe how much he does not want to call Gabriel right now. Or how much he wants to take back that unwelcome touch, the press of his hand that somehow built a wall between what Sam has come to think of as their friendship. He and Dean don’t actually have enough friends to be driving away the few that are willing to stick around. This is why we can’t have nice things, he thinks, running a hand through his messy hair. We keep breaking them.

But it's like ripping off a band-aid, right? Better to get it over with. Before he can talk himself out of it, he's tapping the place call button.

And waiting. And then waiting some more. Gabriel doesn't use his voice mail box, so when he doesn't pick up the call just drops into dead air. 

Actually, Sam isn't surprised. Sure, Gabriel is ancient and dangerous and one of the most powerful creatures in existence barring _God_ , but he's also kind of a brat. 

Three unanswered calls later, he has to accept that Gabriel is most likely ignoring him. So he starts off again down the road, tapping out a text message as he goes. He has to delete and retype it several times because the words won’t come easily.

The final version reads: hey im sorry about the other night and kali says ur banned from her temple. u should call me

Once it’s sent, he wishes he could take it back. Maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned Kali. Maybe he should have waited until after he’s had a good night’s sleep and an actual meal before trying to mend whatever he’s broken between them. What a truly shitty attempt at reconciliation.

He sends another one that says: u dont have to call if u dont want to just if ur bored i guess

Well, that makes it sound like he doesn’t care one way or the other. _Jesus_. He gives up on sending anything that doesn’t make him look like an idiot.

Sam scrolls through his inbox, shocked and dismayed by the nine million texts Dean has left for him. Even Hermione-but-really-Cas has left him a single, straightforward message: 

I know that you are upset. Please come back. Your brother is worried about you.

But Sam can’t shake the helpless anger within him, or the stubborn need for distance. Every now and then, he gets like this. Even knowing the kind of grief it causes everyone around him, he can’t help running from that sensation of suffocating, of not being able to get enough of…something. Air, space. Whatever it is, he needs it right the fuck now and even if he can only do it by escaping his brother, well—it is what it is.

The night air is cool and moist. On either side of the long stretch of road, flat farmland extends to the black horizon.

This never ends well.

Sam's noticed that there's a certain insane pattern to the things that happen to him and Dean. Striking off alone pretty much guarantees he's going to be jumped by some monster or another, or that at the very least he's going to get arrested.

Except that what happens is this:

He catches a ride with a pretty girl in a Volkswagen sometime around three a.m. and listens to her chatter all the way to Sioux Falls. She only asks him one question—his name—which he’s perfectly content to lie about, and he drifts off to sleep to the sound of her sweet, high-pitched voice. When he wakes up, the sun is turning the skyline orange and the girl says, “So how long’ve you been going to USF?”

Sam tries, “Two years?”

“Wow, you’re a sophomore? Me too! Maybe we’ll have some classes together!”

She pulls up outside what Sam quickly realizes is a dormitory. They’re on a college campus, but Sam is gratified to see the city proper just down the street, lined with trendy restaurants and (thank God) hotels that obviously cater to the parents of the university students.

“So I’ll see you around?”

“Oh yeah,” Sam smiles weakly. “Definitely.” Definitely not.

She hugs him before she bounces off and Sam wastes no time stealing a bike from the nearby rack. It’s early enough in the morning that mist is still rising off the grass and the lingering coolness of the night rushing against his face as he pedals helps him stay (mostly) awake.

He’s got two or three credit cards in his wallet, which jointly are about enough to get him through a couple of weeks flying solo. He isn’t sure if he’ll stay away that long, or if he’ll catch a ride back to Iowa tomorrow.

Sometimes, the not knowing is the best part.

+++

im alive, Sam eventually texts Castiel.

just need some time

+++


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this part is definitely NC-17. I don’t think I’ve ever written a really graphic depiction of teh sex before, and I’m freaking out about posting it so I hope I did it justice and you guys should totally let me know if I did a good job or if I should, like, never ever attempt it again. O.O

+++

 

**Part Two**

 

+++

 

There's a club within walking distance of the room Sam rents for the night. He knows this because after passing out for a few hours, he wakes up in a cold sweat to the sound of Rihanna crooning out distress signals loud enough to filter through the painted-shut window across from Sam’s bed.

 

Twenty minutes later, he’s sipping on the worst glass of whiskey he’s ever had the misfortune to be subjected to. The club is attempting to be trendy, and miserably failing. Strobe lights cast everything in a haze of blue and green, like being under water and high at the same time. The walls are decked out in the kind of décor that even a camping lodge would reject as too tacky—all deer heads and camouflage and endless lines of artfully placed beer bottles.

 

For a Friday night, there aren’t that many people here, just loose groups of guys laughing over open beers and looking for any kind of thrill, and girls twisting on what passes for a dance floor, nearly identical with their thick eyeliner and long, layered hair in shades of blond and brown and red. There’s a girl sitting less than a foot away from Sam, her arms propped up on the bar so he can see the star tattoo on her wrist. She’s nursing some fruity mixed drink that Sam really wishes he’d ordered instead of the crap he’s trying to force down. When she sees him looking at it remorsefully, her red lips curl up and she says, loud over the music, “Wanna trade?”

 

“Not tonight,” he replies easily, because he’s smarter than that. He doesn’t think she’s a demon—or anything other than a run-of-the-mill college girl—but he’s had a lot of practice ignoring his instincts and it’s never gotten him anywhere good. Better safe than sorry. Or drugged, or dead, or whatever.

 

“You look familiar,” she says, smile still in place.

 

She’s pretty, in a wasted kind of way, and there was a time when Sam wouldn’t have hesitated to take full advantage of someone like her. He considers doing it anyway, because while it won’t make him feel better he doesn’t see how it could make him feel any worse, losing himself in semi-normalcy for the brief time it would take him to talk her into bed.

 

Instead, he shrugs, says, “I don’t think so,” and the dismissal is so clear in his voice that she finally loses her smile and turns away.

 

If he’s honest with himself, he really wants to turn and see another smile across from him, one tinged in mockery and a tiny hint of risk, but he quickly pushes that thought aside because the point of coming here was to _forget_.

 

He’s signaling the bartender for another drink when something knocks into his back, hard, and he grabs out through force of habit.  The culprit is some preppy kid barely old enough to drink, who glares and twists his wrist out of Sam’s grasp with a muttered, “Chill, dude,” and Sam tries to still the rapid beating of his heart. He’s so on edge, he doesn’t even remember to apologize until the guy is halfway across the room.

 

He wants a fight so bad he can taste it.

 

Sam can feel eyes on him as he makes for the exit; he tries to shake it off. Outside, the streetlights cast oily shadows on the ground. Something moves in Sam’s peripheral vision, but when he turns to look it’s just a couple making out on the hood of an old Camry.

 

Nothing out of the ordinary.

 

But he can’t shake the feeling that something is _wrong_.

 

He’s not far from the motel, still puzzling over the feeling, when he stumbles over what turns out to be a dirt-encrusted tennis shoe. He catches himself before he makes an intimate acquaintance with the ground, but as he bends over the shoe, the sensation of _wrongness_ intensifies so suddenly that he isn’t even surprised when he hears a low hiss from the alley that lines the closed bakery to his right. 

 

Sam’s mind blanks. He’s reaching for his gun before he remembers that he’s unarmed. Cursing under his breath, he ducks into the shadows of the bakery awning, easing his way along the brick wall until he can lean around the corner and peer into the darkness.

 

A rapid clicking fills the air, like the tip-tap of fingers over a keyboard. Sam squints, straining to make out what it is that is making the noise.

 

He shifts, and his foot knocks against a long steel bar lying half out of the alleyway. The metallic clink has barely faded before he’s rolling out of the way, something heavy swooshing into the space he’d occupied seconds before.

 

It’s a rookie mistake, but too late to do anything except stand and fight until he either takes the whatever-it-is out or makes his escape. He can’t get a good look at it because it’s coming at him too fast, all claws and teeth—no, _mandibles_ , goddamnit it’s some kind of insect—but he somehow manages to get his hands on the bar he’d tripped over and as he wraps his hands firmly around its length, he feels a fierce smile stretch across his face.

 

One of the thing’s claws catches hold of his thigh, bearing down and _crushing_ , and Sam breathes out heavily from the pain even as he swings the steel bar with all of his strength.

 

The thing goes down like a dispersing hurricane, litter from the street flying out around it as it struggles to right itself. Sam doesn’t give it the opportunity, just keeps slamming the bar into again and again until his hands are numb from the ricochet and it isn’t moving anymore. There’s a nasty squelch when he pulls the bar back for the last time, dropping it at his feet. He wipes his gore splattered hands on his jeans before reaching for his phone, the weak light revealing the thing that was once some kind of giant mantis but is now a smattering of broken legs, cracked chitin and icky goo. A dismembered claw twitches weakly before going still.

 

There’s a body in the deeper dark of the alley, and Sam has to breathe through his mouth because the smell is pretty bad. Whoever it was, they weren’t able to hold their bowels at the moment of death.

 

With some difficulty, and a lot of ingenuity, Sam cleans up the mess (he’s _so good_ at cleaning up his messes) and by the time he’s finished, his thigh is aching where the mantis got him and he wants to bathe more than he’s ever wanted just about anything in his life.

 

+++

 

He’s still bleeding when he steps out of the shower onto the damp tiles of the bathroom. Thin streams of watery blood trickle from the mess that is his left thigh. The wound is ovular, kind of like a giant bite mark where the claws sank in and pulled. Sam holds one ragged-edged towel to his thigh to staunch the bleeding as he stumbles out of the bathroom, trying to remember if mantises are poisonous or not.

 

This means that Sam is mostly naked when he catches sight of the archangel sprawled gracelessly on his bed, sandy hair making a halo around his face. Gabriel stares, one eyebrow rising slowly, but Sam is so taken aback that he forgets what little modesty he possesses.

 

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing he says, because it seems the most pressing.

 

“ _You’ve_ been busy,” Gabriel returns, lightly.

 

“Yeah, I guess?” Sam rubs at the back of his head, and then, as an afterthought, shifts his towel to cover his junk. _Wow_ , he thinks, _just flashed an angel, good job, Sam, cookie for you_. “Um, I’m just gonna…” _Patch myself up_ , he intends to say, but it occurs to him that he doesn’t have any supplies for that, really. Jesus, can this get any more awkward? He should probably do something, anything, but he can’t seem to make himself function.

 

He’s nervous, he realizes. Like, sweaty palms, racing pulse nervous.

 

Gabriel is lifting himself enough to rest back on his elbows, his expression still faintly amused. He doesn’t seem to share Sam’s discomfort. “Kid, I’m gonna be one hundred percent honest here. You look like shit,” he says bluntly. “And as much as the curiosity is _killing_ me, I’m not gonna ask you what the hell you’re doing way out here, alone—and hey, you actually paid for a hotel, no shacking up with the old fella? After all he’s done for you and your charming brother, what with the propensity of alcoholism and plaid—“

 

“I can’t go to Bobby,” Sam says quickly. He feels a twinge of guilt at that. He’s less than twenty minutes from Bobby’s place, but it never even occurred to him to drop in on one of the few people who still has any faith in him. “I mean, I won’t. I’m just passing through.”

 

Gabriel rolls his eyes, and then he’s in Sam’s personal space, taking his wrist with a grip that’s like pure steel. The warmth of the archangel’s palm seems to spread all through Sam’s body, and he can feel himself flushing as Gabriel pushes him down until his knees hit the back of the bed. The blood from his wound has stained the towel blotchily red. He sits down, the mattress springs protesting. When Gabriel lowers himself to his knees before him, Sam’s brain short-circuits.

 

“Uh—“

 

“Wow, calm down please,” Gabriel scolds, his lips quirking. “I know this is very exciting for you, Sammy, but this is completely platonic, I promise.”

 

“It’s S-Sam,” Sam corrects automatically, hating the shake in his voice. He can’t help it; Gabriel’s thin fingers are pushing the towel away, revealing the still-bleeding gashes that mar his skin. Sam very deliberately keeps the towel bunched over his lap, hoping to _God_ that Gabriel hasn’t noticed the sudden, almost painful erection Sam is hiding.

 

The only light in the room comes from the bedside lamp, and it bathes Gabriel’s face in warm yellow light, his eyelashes golden against his high cheekbones as he concentrates on Sam’s wound. Sam desperately scours his own mind for some kind of distraction, and finally settles on listing the state capitals in alphabetical order.

 

He’s on Dover, Delaware when Gabriel, with surprising gentleness, passes his hand over Sam’s thigh, and the electric shiver that runs down Sam’s spine is the only sign that anything has been done to him. When Sam looks down, the claw-marks are gone and Gabriel is already across the room, poking through the empty drawers of the ramshackle entertainment center.

 

“You should get dressed,” he says, “and then you should come with me.”

 

“…What?” Sam says intelligently.

 

Gabriel gestures at the bed impatiently, and when Sam looks down he sees two slips of paper that turn out to be movie tickets. Tickets to Inception. This…is so surreal.

 

Sam is already zipping up his jeans before it sinks in that he’s doing it _again_. He’s letting Gabriel do…whatever it is that he always does, this uneasy pseudo-friendship that has been driving Sam up the wall for some time now. And Sam just goes along with it, and he keeps projecting these motives onto Gabriel that _clearly_ , judging by the archangel’s reaction in Taipei, he does not actually have. If he focuses on the facts, and not on his own emotions, he can probably get a much better picture of what is actually going on here. This is Gabriel being bored. This is Gabriel needing entertainment, and dragging Sam with him because he’s…convenient, or amusing, or maybe just a little pathetic and in Sam’s experience angels really value those qualities in the humans they mess with.

 

Slowly, Sam finishes pulling his shirt over his head, and when he gets it over his ears he says, “Actually, I’m gonna sit this one out, Gabriel.”

 

Gabriel is already watching him knowingly, one brow lifting in a familiar what-is-this-crazy-human-doing- _now_ kind of look.

 

“Got other plans, do you?”

 

“No, I…I can’t _do_ this anymore.” Sam’s sigh is quiet, tired even to his own ears. He looks up at Gabriel through his bangs, not sure what to say but knowing that he _has_ to say it. “You’ve got to know by now that…well, it’s like this. I’m an idiot, because I really like you, and also because I’m actually telling you. How much I like you, I mean. Spoiler alert: it’s a lot.”

 

“Oh,” is what Gabriel says, all inflection stripped from his voice. His face is blank, like one of those marble statues people put in especially pretentious gardens.

 

“Yeah, and this is the most ridiculous declaration of l-love you’ll probably ever receive,” and oh _shit_ he said the l-word, what the fuck is he thinking. Guh. “So I guess I should win some sort of prize for that, like maybe a free pass where you give me the benefit of the doubt when I say I _really_ didn’t mean for this to happen. It just did. So…my bad.” Sam snaps his mouth closed suddenly because he hadn’t meant to say most of that, but when he’s nervous he can’t seem to _shut up_. He’s going to need so much therapy after this.

 

It’s odd that Gabriel is still around, that he hasn’t zapped himself off someplace like he usually does whenever Sam pisses him off particularly badly. Instead, he’s just standing there, his heavy gaze resting on some point past Sam’s head, his hands shoved in the pockets of his cargo pants.

 

“You’re not my type, Sam,” he says finally, and though Sam already _knew_ that, he can’t help the queasy drop of his stomach, like receiving an anticipated blow. “You’re really young and I have a preference for the ladies, just being honest here. You’re sensitive. I think I’d probably break you and…” Gabriel lets out a little half-laugh, barely more than a puff of air. “…I don’t want that.”

 

“No, yeah, I get that,” Sam says quickly, and he’d resorted to looking at his own bare feet but he looks up now to find the archangel _right there_ , strong hands coming up to brush against Sam’s jaw, angle his face down until their foreheads are touching, so close that Sam’s eyes lose focus and he can feel Gabriel’s breath against his lips, candy-sweet and _hot_.

 

_Ohmygodohmygod_ , Sam’s mind is frantically repeating in a helpless loop and then his thoughts die out completely at the first brush of Gabriel’s lips against his own.

 

The _other_ Sam, the one that had inhabited this timeline before Gabriel dragged Sam in to take his place, had been far more experienced than Sam. He had a few extra years on him, after all, and he was miserable enough to find solace in the arms of just about _anyone_ (or anything, for that matter) that showed any interest in him.

 

But this Sam has never kissed another guy before, and he thinks that he should probably be freaking out about the brush of stubble against his chin, the firm press of Gabriel’s lips, the calluses on the thumbs that are rubbing carefully at his cheeks in a deliberately calming manner.

 

He surprises himself, because he’s more than okay with it. He tilts his face until their lips slide together more naturally and it’s Sam who initiates the first sly swipe of tongue, licking into Gabriel’s mouth and turning the kiss a little dirty, nipping at the archangel’s lips and pressing his hands against the base of his spine to feel the muscles flex there, shameless in his desire.

 

Gabriel doesn’t _have_ to breathe, but Sam does and when he breaks away he’s light-headed and gasping, flushed head to toe. Gabriel makes a tortured sound, low in his throat, and pushes Sam back until he’s lying on the bed, his hands shaking so badly that he can barely keep himself from falling back against the thin pillows. Gabriel climbs over him, twining one hand in his hair and pressing light kisses against his mouth until Sam thinks he might _die_. He’s rock hard and it takes all of the self-control he has to keep his hips still because he doesn’t want to look like a total slut.

 

“Oh, believe me, that is _not_ a problem,” Gabriel growls, and they’re so close Sam can almost taste the syllables.

 

“Nngh,” Sam says, eloquent, and Gabriel is biting at the skin just below his earlobe before pressing his tongue against it. When he sucks at Sam’s pulse point, Sam just about loses it right then and there, bucking up into the air. Gabriel moves his legs forward, pressing his thigh flush against the front of Sam’s jeans and the contact is just enough to draw an embarrassing whimper from Sam which he tries to smother with the back of his hand.

 

“Sh-shit,” he groans, and, “Please, I—I need—“

 

Except he isn’t exactly sure what he needs, just that whatever it is it involves Gabriel and probably less clothing, so he pulls at the edge of Gabriel’s polo, sliding it up and pressing his hands against the tanned skin of his belly, the warmth of it going straight to his head. There is a faint line of blond hair that extends beyond the waistline of Gabriel’s pants and Sam runs the tips of his fingers through the thin strands, Gabriel’s breath stuttering against his neck.

 

“Yeah,” Gabriel says. He pushes Sam’s hand away and in what seems like one smooth motion, undoes the front of his own pants and Sam’s, pulling down Sam’s boxers until cool air rushes against his cock and makes him break out in honest-to-God goosebumps. All of the air rushes out of Sam in one long exhale when Gabriel’s hand wraps around the both of them, Gabriel’s cock hot against his and the pressure is so sweet that Sam has to bite the inside of his cheek hard to wind himself down just enough not to come immediately. He clenches his own hands in the bed linens, hanging on for dear life.

 

_It’s too much_ , Sam thinks, dazed. He almost can’t stand it.

 

Sam has _no_ idea where Gabriel gets the lube from, but between one gasp and the next the archangel’s hand is suddenly slick, his thumb sliding over the head of Sam’s dick and Sam’s hips jerk against his will, grinding himself into Gabriel’s firm grasp, the slip and slide of their cocks rubbing together. Gabriel has his face buried against Sam’s collarbone, his breathing quick and damp and the second time his thumb passes over that too sensitive spot Sam goes rigid, his vision exploding into a kaleidoscopic array as he comes harder than he ever has, long streams of his own semen coating Gabriel’s hand and their stomachs. Gabriel moans, sounding almost pained, and he lasts only a few more seconds before he is trembling through his own orgasm. Sam stares at his face, the clench of his jaw and the flash of amber through the slits of his eyelids, completely awed.

 

When Gabriel comes back to himself, he flops down next to Sam on the bed, one arm propping his head up. He stares at the ceiling, apparently as out of it as Sam feels. Sam isn’t sure how it happened, but they’re both fully clothed now, all physical traces of their…activities conspicuously absent. He rubs at his stomach, remembering the wetness against his skin, shivering at the memory of it.

 

“So,” Sam tries, awkwardly crossing his long legs, “that was sudden. And awesome.”

 

Gabriel snorts. “Sam, you’re so moe I am in a continual state of disappointment that a shower of cherry blossoms doesn’t randomly pop up wherever you happen to be.”

 

“Uh, okay. Unexpectedly geeky of you, thanks for that. But…” Sam sneaks a glance at Gabriel only to find the archangel still determinedly staring at nothing in particular.

 

_We just had sex_ , he realizes, his stomach twisting with his bewilderment. _I’m pretty sure that counts as sex, right?_ It had happened so suddenly, too quick and intense for Sam to even consider walking away from it, and now he can’t help but wonder if it was a one-off deal, just Gabriel working through his own frustration. The thought makes him feel sick.

 

“You’re an idiot,” Gabriel informs him, rolling over to fix him with an exasperated glare.

 

“Look, the mind reading thing is _not_ fair,” Sam says. “And you’re totally giving me mixed signals. One minute you’re dumping me because I barely _touched_ you, I mean, you didn’t talk to me for _days_ , and the next you’re…” Sam looks away from that too-bright gaze. “You’re doing _this_.”

 

“Yeah, because you’re a paragon of good sense and self-composure, right, Sam?” Gabriel falls back against the pillows with a muffled huff. “If you haven’t noticed, there’s been a bit of a political upheaval upstairs.” Gabriel whirls one finger in the air above their heads. “It’s…well, it’s like the worst family reunion you can possibly imagine, mixed with the Constitutional Convention, with a side of Jerry Springer.”

 

“Huh,” Sam says.

 

“Mm, not fun for me, and you’re, as I think we’ve established, an idiot. I don’t usually go for the whole self-sacrifice bullshit but I was _trying_ to protect you.”

 

“From _what_?”

 

“From all of that!” Gabriel sits up abruptly, running his hands through his golden hair. He looks wretched. “Heaven wasn’t meant to be a democracy, Sam, but that’s what we’re damn well melding it into, and I’m the new system’s number one advocate. I don’t know if you realize this, but angels aren’t so great at making their own choices, and you have _no_ idea what I had to go through to get Raphael on my side. I mean, diplomacy instead of blind obedience to a, for all intents and purposes, _nonexistent_ figurehead, how crazy is that? But it’s either this or civil war and, let me tell you, you do _not_ want that.” He shakes his head. “There’re a bunch of my brothers that are pissed about the whole thing, and they haven’t forgotten the role you and your brother played in it. Christ, that’s not even counting all the _demons_ that would cream themselves at the thought of getting their hands on you. I’ve mostly kept the heat off of you guys, but…it’s like you _want_ a sign on your back that says, ‘Hey, come and kill me,’ because you want to get it on with _me_ , of _all_ people. I don’t think you could pick a more conspicuous date to the prom, Sam.”

 

“That’s probably true,” Sam says slowly, pushing himself up until he’s on the same level as Gabriel. “And the last thing I want to do is…make things worse for you? You get that, right?”

 

Gabriel rubs at his face, groaning. “It’s not _about_ me, it’s about _you_. I didn’t go through all the trouble of giving you back to your brother just for you to die in the stupidest way imaginable.”

 

“Yeah, why _did_ you do that?” Sam picks at the fibers of the cheap bedspread, apprehension going through him like a cold breeze. “What was in it for you? We weren’t exactly the best of buddies before. I tried to kill you. A lot. The other me especially.”

 

“I don’t know,” Gabriel says, and the look he gives Sam is so detached and cool that Sam isn’t sure what to make of it. It’s times like these that he’s reminded of the fact that Gabriel just isn’t _human_ , not even close. He puts on a good act, but at the end of the day he’s as far removed from the human experience as the other angels. “I wanted to do it. Isn’t that enough?”

 

Sam’s mouth goes dry and he clambers off the bed, suddenly needing some kind of distance between them. Something drifts to the floor by his feet and he bends down to scoop up the movie tickets, both crumpled, and just stares at them for a long moment.

 

“I guess it is,” he says. “You always just do what you want.”

 

Gabriel watches him with hooded eyes. “Is there any reason I shouldn’t?”

 

And that, Sam thinks, is what will be his undoing, that arousal that curls all through him, lazy and catlike, whenever Gabriel is at his most selfish. He’s so carelessly powerful. It’s impossible to resist, and now Sam can see what Gabriel meant about breaking him. It _will_ break him. He could throw himself up against Gabriel for the rest of his life, like a moth against a windowpane, and he’ll never really get through to him because they don’t see each other in the same light. When Sam looks at Gabriel he sees something awesome, something beautiful and special, but Sam is just a charming blip on Gabriel’s radar.

 

Sam shrugs and turns away but Gabriel’s grip is tight on his arm, pushing around and back until he’s pinned to the wall behind him, Gabriel staring up at him with no sign of mockery for once. His body, so much shorter than Sam’s, is impossibly strong and he holds Sam still with absolutely no effort.

 

“I think you misunderstand me,” he says roughly, eyes flashing gold. “It’s too late to back out now, kiddo.”

 

Sam scowls, obstinately twisting away even though he knows he’ll never break that iron grip. “Hey, I’m not _that_ much of an idiot, I get it.”

 

“No, you really don’t.”

 

“I can do friends with benefits, Gabriel,” Sam says, aiming for cool but he can’t keep the note of bitterness out of his voice. “I’m a big boy, I can handle it.”

 

Gabriel laughs, and then he releases Sam from his hold, his head tilting to the side. “That’s what I like about you. You’re so stubborn, so easily _hurt_. What do I need to do? Do you want me to declare my undying love on one knee by candlelight? I can do music, chocolate, flowers, the whole shebang if you need it. Your trust issues are as endearing as always, but I can’t take it if you look at me like I just ran over your favorite pet and drove off laughing into the sunset.” He grins, those dimples springing up to frame his lips like parentheses. “Sam.”

 

Sam blinks, and realizes his mouth is hanging open. Belatedly, he shuts it and leans back against the wall, his head spinning. “What’re you saying?”

 

“I’m saying…fuck it. Let’s do this thing.” And he grabs at the collar of Sam’s shirt, pulls him down until their lips meet, open-mouthed already and so wonderfully messy. Gabriel is a fucking fantastic kisser, which makes sense because he’s been around for…for a _long_ time, and Sam lets himself melt into the sensation because he wants to believe that it means something to someone other than himself for once.

 

“It does,” Gabriel murmurs, with unexpected tenderness, his hand still caught in Sam’s shirt and his mouth up against Sam’s ear.

 

+++

 

Inception is just as glorious as Sam had thought it would be. He _might_ gush about it a little too enthusiastically because as soon as they exit the theatre, Gabriel lays one hand on his arm and abruptly they aren’t in the commercial district of South Dakota anymore, circa May, they’re in some ritzy room with tasteful, modern furniture, everything in shades of white, the windows draped in long, gauzy curtains that reveal a calm ocean view, no people in sight. It’s so bright after the darkness of before that Sam just stands blinking for a few confused seconds before Gabriel takes hold of him, pulling at the thin jacket Sam had donned against the cool autumn air that has now given way to the warm, salt-laced air of the sea.

 

“Just so you know,” Gabriel says, smirking, “I’m not a big fan of the establishments you and your brother usually frequent.”

 

“I can see that,” Sam says, his breath hitching when Gabriel’s hands casually pop open the buttons lining the front of his shirt. It would probably be faster for Gabriel to mojo his clothes off, he thinks, but he’s always seemed to be a process-oriented kind of guy.

 

“Oh, I _am_ ,” he purrs, flicking at the fly on Sam’s jeans. “What do you think of your first glimpse of the unspoiled Samoan seaside? I kind of dig it.”

 

“’S great,” Sam says, shaky because Gabriel is kneeling to tug Sam’s jeans and his boxers until they pool around his ankles. He stares up at Sam with an inscrutable expression as Sam stands there with his white Oxford shirt fluttering open around his hips, not a stitch else on except a little shy smile.

 

Gabriel raises an eyebrow. “I have a great idea,” he says.

 

He rises and strides away without another word and Sam follows behind him, sheepish and curious and already worked up. They go into what turns out to be the biggest bathroom Sam has ever seen, the most ridiculous tub in the history of the world taking up most of the space. It’s big enough for at least four or five people to comfortably swim in it, sunken into the floor like a pool, white tiles spreading out around it in an a perfect corona. There are floor-to-ceiling windows in here, too, covered in the same thin fabric that doesn’t do much to hide the world outside. Gabriel already has the water running, and Sam has only _dreamed_ of water pressure that strong. Motel showers will bring him to tears from now on.

 

Steam is rising up from the rapidly rising water, giving the room a dreamy quality. Gabriel shucks his own clothes clinically before slipping into the tub with fish-like grace and then raising one imperious hand to beckon Sam.

 

As Sam approaches, his feet slapping too loud against the floor, he tugs off his open shirt, folding it into a neat square that he places next to the crumpled pile of clothes already littering the floor. He holds his breath as he enters the water, which is hot enough to be uncomfortable. Gabriel is leaning against the side of the bath, his arms folded over the edge and his head resting on his arms, eyes at half-mast and fixed brazenly on Sam’s naked body. The heavy steam clings to their skin and Sam thinks that this might be the first time he’s really seen Gabriel sweat. Thin beads dot his forehead where his hair is already hanging lank and wet.

 

“This is…unreal,” Sam says, sinking further into the water with a quiet hiss until only his shoulders are sticking out.

 

“Live a little,” Gabriel says languidly, and then he sends a tremendous spray of water into Sam’s face with a clever push of his hands.

 

“Oh _hell_ no, it is _on_ ,” and Sam is splashing right back at him, pushing his wet hair out of his eyes so that he gets a clear view of Gabriel fighting off Sam’s attacks with desperate splashes of his own.

 

Pretty soon Gabriel has Sam pinned against the side of the bath, his arms stretched out on either side as the archangel grins down at him, soaking wet and sliding deliciously up against him. Sam tries to angle their hips together. Gabriel avoids him skillfully, and then he’s prodding at Sam until it becomes clear that he wants him out of the water, but only enough so that Sam is balanced on the white tiles of the edge of the bath. The coolness of the tile against his ass is distracting. Sam is quickly brought back to the more immediate reality of Gabriel leaning up from the water and pulling Sam down into a teasing kiss.

 

Sam should have guessed, but he it had honestly never occurred to him that Gabriel would be just as infuriating at _this_ as he is at everything else. He takes his time moving down Sam’s body, plucking at his nipples first with light, barely there touches and then too-soft brushes of his tongue. Sam shudders as the rough pads of Gabriel’s fingertips trail down his sides, spreading the already evaporating water droplets over the sensitive skin there. That clever mouth is moving waaay too slowly down and by the time Gabriel’s tongue is lapping at the shallow crease between his hip and his groin, Sam is shaking like a leaf.

 

“Come on,” Gabriel murmurs, his cheek rubbing against Sam’s thigh in a way that should be _illegal_ , “you’re a talkative guy, Sam, so _talk_ to me. Tell me what you want.”

 

“Yeah, okay,” Sam says because he’d do _anything_ for more—more friction, more sensation, just more in general. “Just, uh, right at the moment anything is good. You could—touch me, please.”

 

“I _am_ touching you,” Gabriel says, innocent. He’s blowing a cool stream of air against the wet trail of saliva he’d left on Sam’s belly.

 

“ _Nn_. Yeah, no. No, _touch_ me, like, I need your hands—“ He’s going hot all over, mortified. This has never been his particular kink. “On my dick, okay, there, please just, your mouth, or—or—or _fuck_ —“ Because Gabriel is lapping at the head of Sam’s cock where it juts up against his stomach, unashamedly open-mouthed and so _filthy_ as he sinks down on it with one sharp inhale. Sam can only process _wet_ and _tight_ and _hot_ , his legs falling open without any input from him at all. He can’t come up with anything that is really comprehensible or, he thinks, sexy, so he settles for a stuttered string of curses as Gabriel moves over him, drawing him in and sucking at him noisily.

 

“You’re so cute, Sam,” Gabriel says after he leans back, his hand pumping Sam’s cock in place of his mouth, which is spread into an amused smile. He promptly returns to his task, licking at the base of Sam’s shaft so softly that Sam thinks he’s going to lose his fucking mind, he really is, especially when that too-fleeting pressure is applied to the thin skin of his balls and he nearly comes up off the tile, keening high in his throat. Gabriel’s fingers are tickling up the insides of his thighs, making Sam’s muscles twitch in protest and then Gabriel presses his mouth there, too, kissing along both thighs and even to Sam’s knees, laughing at Sam’s frustrated groans.

 

The steam makes it hard for Sam to catch his breath. He’s resting back on his elbows, gasping when Gabriel finally pins his hips down with a sudden show of strength and takes him in his mouth again, this time in earnest. Sam pushes himself up enough, despite the harsh push of Gabriel’s hands and the shock of _suction-pressure_ , to see Gabriel’s golden head moving between his legs, Sam’s cock sliding wetly against his lips and Gabriel chooses that instant to meet his eyes. The debauched look is good on him, Sam thinks in the seconds before he comes. It’s so quick that Sam doesn’t even have the chance for a warning, the curl of his toes, still submerged in water, the only sign that he’s losing it, and he’s making these quiet, unconscious ah-ah-ah sounds as he spills into Gabriel’s mouth. Gabriel is careful and neat as he finishes him off, passing one finger delicately under his lips to catch the little dribble that escapes when he pulls away.

 

It’s so hot that Sam just has to reach for him, kissing him so deeply that he tastes himself (which should be _ew_ but is actually really interesting and…not as gross as he thought it would be). Gabriel rises from the water like the god that he’d pretended to be for so long (or maybe he hadn’t needed to pretend, not much, because when Sam lets his hands rest against Gabriel’s bare hips a _thrum_ goes through him, like touching the surface of one of those plasma globes he’d been so fascinated with as a kid).

 

“Yes,” Gabriel hisses as Sam lowers his head to the impressive erection now at face-height, and it’s amazing that _he_ caused this, that Gabriel wants _him_. It’s a powerful feeling. Sam has never given a blowjob before, but what he lacks in experience he tries to make up for with enthusiasm. The taste isn’t unlike what he’d already tasted on Gabriel’s lips, sort of salty and strange. He chokes as Gabriel pushes in deep, the archangel’s hands sinking into Sam’s hair and holding on, fucking into Sam’s mouth and speaking in low, throaty tones words that Sam can’t for the life of him make out. Trusting Gabriel not to cut off his air supply entirely is a daunting task, but Sam relaxes his jaw, letting Gabriel thrust against his tongue and hollowing his cheeks as he tries an experimental suck.

 

It must be the right thing to do because Gabriel begins to gradually lose the rhythm he’s built up, his breath growing ragged, and he tries to pull away at the last second but Sam stubbornly resists, licking at the head of his cock as Gabriel strokes himself to completion. Hot fluid hits Sam across his lips and he licks at that, too; most of it ends up on his chest, though, and Sam wipes at it curiously, running his fingers through it.

 

Gabriel’s knees fold and he pulls Sam back into the bath with him, kissing at his damp temple, still murmuring in that unfamiliar language.

 

“Yeah, me too,” Sam breathes, pressing his nose into the slope of Gabriel’s neck. Everything smells of sex and sweat and it’s a miracle that the water is still as hot as it is. It’s strange that, given what they just did, the feeling of hands on him, spreading water and then soap over the jut of Sam’s shoulder blades and over his chest seems so _intimate_. But it does, and Sam is on the verge of purring when Gabriel manhandles him around until he’s sitting between Gabriel’s open legs, his head falling back against Gabriel’s torso as the archangel goes about washing his hair, every motion cautious and soothing.

 

“Sam.” For the first time, Sam catches the warmth in the way Gabriel says his name, like it means _more_ than just what he’s called. He stares up at the underside of Gabriel’s chin until Gabriel looks down at him, golden eyes solemn for once. “I think you should tell me why you ran away from home.”

 

Sam is so drained that he hardly flinches. “Wow, I’m not twelve, Gabriel, that is so not what it’s called. I...sometimes I need space, you know? To think about stuff. God, you of all people ought to understand _that_.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

“And Dean’s just—he so _determined_ , you know, he gets these ideas in his head and he barely consults me at all, he just expects me to toddle after him like…like a _child_. It’s irritating as fuck.” Sam watches the play of light against the ceiling, grimacing because he’s pretty sure Gabriel isn’t really all that interested in his and Dean’s petty fight-of-the-week, is only asking because he knows, in whatever mysterious way he knows _anything_ , that it’s been weighing heavily on Sam. “We talked about it maybe twice and next thing you know, he’s signing over our lives. It’s bullshit. The worst part—“ He chokes a bit on the words, but they come out despite how much he hates the truth of it, like his honesty valve is twisted on too high. “—the very worst part is, I feel like a freaking third wheel. How pathetic is that?”

 

_Maybe Dean doesn’t really want me around, he’s just including me because he thinks it’s expected, it’s his responsibility._

 

“Dean and Cas, they’ve got their own thing going on, and Jesse’s just a little kid, so…so it’s not the same, and…I don’t know. It’s just weird.”

 

“I see.” Gabriel sighs, playing with Sam’s bangs absently. “You know if you don’t at least talk to old Dean-o, that exemplar of patience, he’s going to do that thing where he moves heaven and earth to get to you and, I hate to say it, but that never ends well for any of the parties involved.”

 

“I know. I know. I was upset, jumped the gun.”

 

“Maybe a little,” Gabriel concedes with a fond smile. And then, “You know, for all his _very_ egregious faults, he doesn’t think that of you.”

 

“What?”

 

“This is getting creepily reminiscent of matchmaking, but…because you’re _such_ a lovable moron, I’ll lay it out for you, Sam.” Gabriel’s hands are warm against Sam’s face, tilting it back until he’s looking straight into his eyes with a sort of disturbing calm. “Your brother loves you. Responsibility doesn’t factor into it as much as you think it does. Quit overthinking it. Am I making myself clear?”

 

Sam blinks. “Sure. Okay. I feel like I should be laying out on a couch and you should have, like, a notebook or something to record my deepest darkest feelings.”

 

“Believe me,” Gabriel says, and for some reason there seems to be entirely too many teeth in his grin, “I’m not your therapist. I fully intend to have my revenge on you for allowing your charming brother to get his grubby little hands on my phone number. I _like_ that number, Sam. It’s such a shame to have to change it, but a voicemail every hour on the hour would test the forbearance of much lesser beings than myself.”

 

“Fuuuck,” Sam moans, “I can’t believe—ugh. Sorry. You can’t kill him.”

 

“Of course not.”

 

“Or…or do anything else to him.”

 

“Nope. The revenge thing applies just to you, aren’t you lucky?”

 

“I really am,” Sam says sincerely, because he’s warm and he’s tired and Gabriel’s hands on him are the best part of ever, he’s pretty sure, so he tips his head just enough to kiss the open palms that are so close to his lips.

 

+++

 

Dean was apparently too stubborn or too furious to bother checking into another motel during Sam’s absence, because the room Gabriel zaps them to is awfully familiar. Sam stares at the door, rubbing at the back of his neck, but when he chances a look at Gabriel the archangel shrugs in a clear it’s-your-funeral way before disappearing without a sound.

 

_Chicken_ , Sam thinks spitefully, and he isn’t very surprised when his phone beeps with an immediate incoming text message from said archangel.

 

says the guy looking like little lost orphan annie get IN there already <333

 

Wow, hearts. Sam tries to think of a witty reply, but he’s too flustered. Maybe later.

 

With one last calming (yeah right) breath, Sam raps his knuckles against the door and steels himself for Hurricane Dean.

 

He’s right to be wary. When Dean pushes the door open and sees him, his eyes go wide and something unreadable passes through them, something hurt and angry and awful. He’s got a gun in one hand, but he holsters it quickly and Sam stiffens, his own eyes squinting against an anticipated blow to the face. But Dean doesn’t punch him; he just _stares_.

 

“Hi,” Sam finally says, so awkward, feeling like he’s in one of those what-is-wrong-with-this-picture puzzles.

 

“You’re back,” Dean manages, voice tight.

 

“Yeah.” Sam shifts his weight from foot to foot, arms hanging limply at his sides. “Um…where’s Cas and Jesse?”

 

“Store,” Dean says shortly, and then, “I should fucking kick your ass.”

 

_Oh God_. It’s a bro-hug moment, Sam can feel it, but Dean is so tense that he’s afraid to make any sudden movements.

 

“That…is a valid reaction,” Sam says. “You have every right to be mad, Dean, but—“

 

“Oh, _shit_ no, do _not_ go all Freud on me, let’s just, let’s just _not_.” Dean crosses his arms, leans against the doorframe and looks anywhere but at Sam. “I might’ve pushed the domestic thing on you too fast, okay, so…so what I’m saying is, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Sammy.”

 

It’s a typically roundabout apology, so _Dean_ that Sam’s lips are quirking into a tiny smile before he can stop himself.

 

“I know that,” Sam says, for once sure of the truth in his own words. “I _do_ want to.”

 

Dean’s uncertain smile is heartbreaking. “Oh.” And, “…Really?”

 

_I would do fucking anything for you. You’re my brother. You practically raised me. I love you._ There is no way Sam could ever actually say those things. Instead he says, “Let’s do this thing."


End file.
